


How useful box cutters are!

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dildos, F/F, Knifeplay, POV First Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Strap-Ons, a metaphorical one, it's just very soft actually, more like strapless strap-on but anyway, this is an exorcism, unabashed kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:41:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25268521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "I spend hours and hours watching her cut through cardboard. She teaches people how to do new things out of broken things, and it’s so often fascinating. I watch her hands dance over trash and make them beautiful again. She’s so delicate yet so firm: I could look at her confidence for the rest of my days. I plan to. "
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Anonymous





	How useful box cutters are!

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this for months, waiting for a ship to fit the idea and it didn't come so.. I guess I wrote something original? Let's see.

I spend hours and hours watching her cut through cardboard. She teaches people how to do  _ new  _ things out of  _ broken  _ things, and it’s so often fascinating. I watch her hands dance over trash and make them beautiful again. She’s so delicate yet so firm: I could look at her confidence for the rest of my days. I plan to. 

She owns more tools than my grandpa used to. Hammers smalls and bigs, screwdrivers of all shapes and colors, wrenches, pliers, billions of nails and screws and bolts, even an utterly cute pocket knife and, of course, an extensive collection of box cutters. She says they all have a different purpose. For me they are just blades, they cut, some are small, some are big, so it probably helps depending on the task but I can’t tell the difference between the retractable one and the one with the metallic cap, they are both big, dangerous, sharp. But she insists. The ceramic blade is her new favorite, through a wicked grin she says it cuts so clean it’s almost too easy. I just think it’s funny, adorable even how cheerful she sounds when she talks about them. 

Even though she owns so many different kinds, she always goes back to her first. It’s an old utility knife, that much I can tell, it looks like it rips more than it cuts. The handle is a bit rusty, I’m not sure which color it used to be. She's masterful with that blade, she knows exactly how to angle it to get the perfect cut she needs despite how blunt the blade is. When she’s in trouble with a project, she often switches to that one. Then she takes it reverently, stares at it for a second like they are having a silent conversation before finally lowering it down to her task. 

It's the closest thing she has to a muse.

She barely uses a ruler, her hand traces through the materials, steady, confident, clean despite how free her tools are. It looks like magic.

One day she notices me staring.

What's wrong, she asks and nothing, I answer. I tell her I just find her confidence with those knives fascinating. She smiles knowingly, makes her old utility knife spins in her palm and whispers: "They are dangerous." I can't contain my surprised gasp when she brushes the warm handle over the back of my hand. She laughs at my reaction of course and I don't wanna be upset about it but can't help. I know I look put out, I'm pouting like a child so she discards her knife and drapes her arms over my shoulders, lowers her face to mine and nuzzles my neck. She says she's sorry, that I'm just cute, adorable, she couldn’t resist. It doesn't help how dumb I feel but as she kisses my neck, I stop caring about anything else. If it makes her want to kiss me then I'm glad I am the way I am.

Her next class is about to begin and she stands with one last apologetic smile before leaving her small office to greet her students back in the workshop.

That night when I go to take my glasses in the bedroom I notice it. The old utility knife, her favorite, her muse, rests on our bedside table, quiet and waiting. It looks out of place and even as she’s speaking from the other room about something else entirely, I can’t take my mind off of it. Maybe something needed repair in our bedroom? I try to remember if a door is squeaking, if a piece of furniture is wobbly. I have nothing. When I come back to the living room, she’s still talking about our plans for the week-end. “Are you even listening?” She chuckles as I fail to answer a question. Immediately I apologize and she laughs it off, I focus back on her.

Eventually it’s getting late and we should go to sleep. The image of the knife on her bedside table comes back to me, even more intriguing, I can’t think about anything else. She’s falling asleep next to me on the sofa, or at least I think she is until she moves up to kiss my neck, getting back to where we left things earlier in her workshop. She whispers my name, knowing quite well how good it feels, how much I crave being there with her, being the one she wants. She suggests we move to the bedroom and I try my best to focus on her, but the knife is there and I can’t help but shiver: maybe I’m scared.

But she takes my hand and soon enough I’m pushed down our bed.

“You noticed it, right?” She asks as she slowly undresses me.

I don’t need to think about what she refers to, I nod, I know: it’s still waiting next to us. 

“Do you like it?”

I don’t know. Maybe. I like how much she likes it, how good they look together. The cutter itself is nothing to me, it’s because it’s hers that it became important. It doesn’t matter, I nod again anyway and she looks pleased. When we are like that, in the secret of our bedroom, I want nothing more than to please her, and I’m graced with the luxury and comfort of knowing the same goes for her. She makes it easy to dedicate my senses to her will because she dedicates hers to mine. There’s no rush, no competition, she wants to push me to my limits, I happily follow along as we reach hers. 

She’s down to the most basic underwear she wears when she knows a long day awaits her. I’m left with nothing but nervousness. Noticing the tension, she takes her time to kiss me again, to touch my body and ignite my skin. Again, there’s no rush in her but this time I can’t say the same for me. I’m restless and it makes me impatient, agitated. I’m not sure if I’m stressed or excited but here I am, moaning in her mouth and tearing at the strap of her bra. I want to feel her warm skin on mine, I want us to forget about anything else but how good we can make each other feel. Maybe, I naively think, maybe if I overwhelm her enough she’ll forget about the knife.

Of course, she doesn’t.

She slows down, pretends to allow me to take off what’s left of her clothes to move to the side and finally, finally take the old muse in her hand. 

“Lie back.” Her tone is gentle yet I notice she’s fighting to keep it calmer than she truly feels. I obey.

Just like she does when she’s working with it, she stares at it for a second and they have their usual silent conversation. I wonder if she asks it to not hurt me but I’m not left with enough time to think this through. With a swift flick of her wrist, she shows off a bit and lets the handle spin in her palm, suddenly she stops, breathes and a familiar succession of clicks hints at the blade getting out of its sheath. It’s hypnotic.

Until she presses the back of the blade on my skin and immediately my eyes fall tightly shut. I want to scream, to beg, I don't know what I'd say if I could but anyway my throat is sore and my eyes are blurry, I'm not sure I'm still breathing. It’s so thin, it could still cut, it suddenly doesn’t feel as blunt anymore.

She takes the blade off my skin. “Breathe, I got you.” I’m overwhelmed, I believe her.

She lowers it again and it makes me jump. It’s cold but not as cold as I thought it’d be, it barely scratches my skin, one long stripe between my breasts and down to my belly button. Every time the contact stops, I breathe again. She does that 3 or 4 times, maybe more, I’m not sure. I think she wants me to get used to it but the habit never comes and I jump every time. A couple of clicks, she puts the blade down, right under my stomach.

”Okay?” She asks.

“Yes.” I manage to whisper as I finally look at her.

I know I can stop this anytime, I don’t want to, I’m under the most breathtaking spell. I also know she wouldn't cut me, not really, but my body is still screaming, begging her to spare me. She won't hurt me I'm telling it, she would never, but still it yells at me, all lights on blast in my alarmed brain and if I wasn't so incapable of coherent thoughts I'd probably find fascinating that despite knowing, completely, surely that I'm safe, my body won't believe me.

"I want to fuck you tonight," she whispers in my ear and I'm just so, so lost.

With a bit of lube and a nice moan, she puts in herself the end of our favorite dildo: the bulb sits perfectly in her, she doesn’t like harnesses, she thrives on feeling my skin on hers as she thrusts into me. I’m still acutely aware of the knife resting on my lower belly. She takes more lube and warms it between her fingers before lowering her face, kissing my thigh and nudging a wet finger to my entrance. She barely gets it in, first chooses to caress me higher, mimicking the up and down motion she used with the blade. It’s as electrifying. 

The knife still rests on my belly as she moves to align the other end of the dildo to me, her hand pressed over her tool. I don’t even remember if the blade is out. I can't say it's not terrifying but it also might be the most mystical experience I ever had. As she finds a smooth rhythm, she starts to look as lost as I feel and maybe she forgets the dangerous weapon, maybe she forgets about me, maybe she only feels her end of the toy moving bluntly in her and she’s not fucking me but herself and I'm a prop. Maybe...

"You're so beautiful," she half chokes. Her voice brings me back to her, and I’m reminded she's here for me, for herself and the breathtaking mess we make of each other.

She moves the knife again, down, down slightly, just to remind me it's there - like I could forget - until the handle is pushed to my clit, not even moving, just lost in the folds, warm, blunt, absolutely too much. It digs in my skin and the point of focus of all my body is right there, right down my belly, right under it. In seconds I'm coming and maybe she cuts me, maybe not, maybe it was all in my head but now it’s completely blank, there’s no pain, just a couple deep thrusts to push me even afar. With a dexterous hand she pushes herself to the edge and comes as she’s still deep in me. The blade is immediately discarded. She lets herself fall in my arms.

She knows I love those quiet moments when she’s on top of me, when the air I breathe passes through her, when her weight encompasses me completely. She always takes advantage of it, always stays a bit longer than she thinks she should, to be honest, she could stay forever.

“Were you scared?” She finally breaks the silence and props herself to her elbows.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Well, just a bit.”

“I didn’t even take the blade out.” 

She has the softest laugh. 

**Author's Note:**

> The level of mutual trust this would require is a kink in itself.
> 
> This is my first time writing original fiction and wlw so if you have any comment let me know. Constructive criticism is welcomed, random smileys as well.  
> ... I can't believe my first time writing wlw is full on kink, welp.


End file.
